Chapter Thirty-Two
Three days into the new routine and Drew was looking more himself. He had some color to his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes were lighter, and his appetite had rebounded. He ate with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been starved and Sam had to continue to be careful with portion control. The last thing he wanted was Drew making himself sick. Sam felt they were ready to tackle the next stage, but he wasn’t sure how Drew was going to feel about it. He was still tight-lipped about Morton but Sam knew there was a lot to be said that needed to come out and sooner rather than later.
He waited until after lunch, then set a stack of paper and pens down on the table before ushering Drew into a seat.
“What am I doing now? Drawing? You do remember me telling you of my complete lack of artistic ability?”
“I remember,” he said, pressing a calming hand on Drew’s shoulder. “This is free writing. An hour where you write whatever you want. It can be real, it can be fiction, you can doodle for all I care. Just write it out.”
“Write what out?”
“Whatever you’re feeling.”
Sam set a timer and left him to it, sitting on the couch and reading a book. Minutes passed before Drew even picked up a pen. Even longer before he put pen to paper. Sam got absorbed in the story, looking up again when the timer buzzed to find Drew scribbling furiously on the paper.
He went over and knocked off the timer but didn’t stop Drew who continued to write. There was anger there, Sam could tell, from the way Drew held the pen, from how it gouged into the paper. Returning to the couch, he sat and waited. When Drew finally finished, he simply dropped the pen on top of the paper, crossed the room and threw himself into the chair opposite Sam. Sam could see he was worked up, his hand clenched into fists.
“Exercise time,” he said. “How about we push the furniture to the side and run sprints?”
Drew seemed to like that idea, and Sam managed to program his phone to time them. By the time they finished, they were sweaty and out of breath.
“Better?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” Drew said. “Better.”
While Drew showered, he put the room to rights, not touching the pages Drew had written on. He hoped, when Drew was ready, he’d come to him.
He didn’t have long to wait, as Drew slipped onto the couch next to him after dinner, the sheaf of papers held in his hand.
“What am I supposed to do with them after?” he asked.
“You don’t have to do anything with them. Some people keep them, some people shred them, for some, it brings up stuff they want to talk about.”
“I should have written about Russell. Or maybe my Dad.”
“There’s no should in this, no hard and fast rules.” He didn’t ask what Drew had written about.
“Do you… do you want to read them?” It took Drew two tries to ask the question and then he went very still next to Sam.
“Do you want me to read them?”
Drew considered that for a minute before nodding and thrusting the sheaf of papers into Sam’s hand. He stood up, went to the kitchenette, and started cleaning. Sam glanced down at the papers in his hand and began reading.
Sam wished the apartment had a punching bag. The more he read, the greater the urge to hit something, anything. Drew’s first few pages were random words, sentences, sometimes repeated over and over. It was only later that he put it all together. Morton was a real bully, from his words to his deeds. He’d tried the kind of techniques used on prisoners to disorientate and confuse them, so they didn’t know when or where or what. No wonder Drew was in bad shape, after four straight weeks of being subjected to that.
When he finished reading, he set the papers down with care and went to the exercise bike, giving himself ten minutes to ride out all his anger. When he finished, Drew was leaning against a wall nearby, watching him.
“We need to talk,” Sam said as he got off, fetching a towel to dry off before setting both himself and Drew’s writings down at the table. Drew took a seat opposite him, nervously tapping the tabletop.
“Here’s what we need to do. Tomorrow, I want you to rewrite this. Try to put it in chronological order as much as you can but don’t worry if you can’t remember dates or times. I’ll write my own report, we’ll get copies to Cora, and I’ll kick one up the chain as well.”
“What if it makes it worse? I mean, the other officers are okay. What if they turn against me?”
“I’ll make sure this doesn’t come back on you, I promise.” Sam had no intention of letting Drew be subjected to that kind of treatment again. Not even if he had to take Drew out of their custody and guard him himself.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me. This should never have happened. You’re here to be protected, not broken.” He reached a hand over and covered Drew’s.
“Want to watch a movie?” Drew asked. “I think there’s something action-y with lots of guns.”
“Sounds just the sort of thing we need to unwind.”
Sam took the couch, assuming Drew would take the chair like he normally did. Instead, Drew settled next to him. After a few glances, he slid closer, until his body was pressed against Sam. Sam wrapped an arm around him and let him cuddle closer, feeling how relaxed Drew was, his head resting against Sam’s chest.
“Why did you come even though I told you we should break things off?”
He’d been waiting for that question, knowing Drew would get around to asking it, eventually.
“I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. I thought it would be easy, but it wasn’t. I needed to know that you were okay.”
“And then I wasn’t. Again.”
“You will be. You’re strong and you’re not alone.”